


The Will To Power

by ToastedToastada (PragmaticKatharsis)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst and Tragedy, Dark, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:44:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3964825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PragmaticKatharsis/pseuds/ToastedToastada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where America loses The War of Independence. Washington is hanged, and England tries to reconnect with his colony. Earlier chapters more Dark!Ficish, hopefully will get more fluffy. Will show the global impact of the failed revolution. England/America</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at FF.net on Nov 13, 2010.

_"...the will to grow, spread, seize, become predominant - not from any morality or immorality but because it is living and because life simply is will to power..." - Paraphrased from the works of Friedrich Nietzsche_

 

* * *

 

He hadn't cried when the older nation disarmed him, knocking him senseless during a battle he had been so sure of winning.

He hadn't cried when he had been told the fate of his continental army, the British Empire was not known for tolerating rebellion.

He hadn't cried when he'd been chained alone in the barracks, awaiting the sentencing of his fellow 'rebel leaders'.

Then came the day George Washington was to be executed. The judgment had been that they weren't deserving of liberty, but plenty deserving of death.

The sun had been shining brightly in the azure sky that day, seeming to mock all that he and his people had fought for, an eternal reminder of the freedom they had been so close to grasping.

He had screamed and thrashed against the soldiers who escorted him to the square, the Empire himself had to help restrain the young colony from attempting to save the man who would have seen him become a country - a democracy.

Even dressed in the tatters of his uniform, the General held his head as high as any king's. As the man walked towards his fate, the unwilling spectator barely registered his eyes widening, already starting to feel the panic born of helplessness.

It was only when he heard the creaking of the gallows drop, soon overshadowed by the expected gasps and heartless cheers from the crowd, that Alfred F. Jones cried.


	2. The Hubris of Independence

_"He who permits himself to tell a lie once, finds it much easier to do it a second and third time...he tells lies without attending to it, and truths without the world's believing him. This falsehood of tongue leads to that of the heart, and in time depraves all its good dispositions." -Thomas Jefferson_

 

* * *

 

How odd that such a normally cheerful room could seem so empty when one was unused to sitting in it alone. The blond gentleman shifted in his armchair, watching the tranquil country landscape from the room's single window. The embodiment of the Kingdom of Great Britain had grown used to the constant company of the house's lively inhabitant while visiting. Arthur had always patiently borne the chatting, laughing, and shouting for as long as possible before bringing his young charge back into line. It was with dark humour that he realised how much he missed it, now that there was a chance that he'd never hear it again.

At least the screaming had stopped.

He had never seen Alfred so upset before, if upset was really the appropriate term for the intense rage and despair that had seemed to take hold over the colony. Arthur was ashamed to admit how physically taxing it had been to restrain him earlier. It wasn't out of viciousness that he had forced his young charge to watch, but out of the necessity that he realise how futile his efforts were in going against him. It was for his own good; at least that's what he kept telling himself.

Arthur knew he wasn't the best brother or father figure, perhaps hadn't paid enough attention to his growing colony. It would be natural for a rebellion then, wouldn't it? But as long as he kept his  _British America_ on a tighter leash he would be able to show Alfred that he wasn't fully ready to be on his own.

It had upset him when Alfred had started to question him. Questioning the way his government was operating (It had been working quite well for centuries thank you very much!) as well as the structure of most societies in Europe.

The job of a colony was not to question or argue. The colony was there to advance the interests of its' sovereign nation. The Glory of the British Empire must be put before all else.

He pressed his hands to his forehead, as if the pressure might displace the melancholy that had settled over his life. The familiar mantra in his head kept ringing. His boy, his precious boy. Arthur had tried to protect him from the world, had given him more in freedom and leniency than most colonies would receive. He hadn't been able to stop himself, though if pressed about why, he did not have a readily available answer.

Unfortunately he could not let this failed revolution slide; the young colony had to re-learn his place in the scheme of things. There would of course be more restrictions on the rights of the 'citizens' who inhabited the colonies, not to mention taxes and the repayment of war expenses. As for Alfred himself…

Arthur didn't want to hurt him, even though he himself still felt very much hurt by Alfred's betrayal. He hadn't thought it would be this painful, had not even considered the scenario a possibility. Who would dream that the only person who ever greeted them with a heartfelt smile would turn on them?

How quickly Alfred had run to what he had been calling his 'fathers'. Franklin, Jefferson, and Washington had been all the boy would go on about at length during the failed diplomatic talks. They had not deserved him, not his bright-eyed boy.

The boy who no longer had the appearance of one, for America had grown much while Arthur had been gone. Alfred looked to be in his late teens now, yet he was still so young. Too young to manage by himself. Far too young for independence.

He turned and eyed the clock on the mantle distastefully. It might not be a bad idea to go check on Alfred, it had been nearly an hour now since he'd heard anything from the room he'd locked him in when they had arrived. He had not wanted to do it, but Arthur had decided to follow his resolution to put America back into his place. A colony must mind its' superior. Even when that superior had just executed your father-figure.


	3. No Respite For The Damned

_"An Englishman does everything on principle: he fights you on patriotic principles; he robs you on business principles; he enslaves you on imperial principles."_ -George Bernard Shaw

* * *

_"Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques."_

Alfred's words barely came above a raspy whisper; the quiet room seemed to swallow them up as quickly as they left him. Hours earlier he had been tossed inside, still wearing the uncomfortable steel manacles that had been clapped on his wrists as he had been dragged to the square. As soon as he'd managed to get himself standing his first action was to try to break down the door. His efforts had been in vain; the heavy oak door didn't even shake in its frame.

Barely noticed had been his own shouts and curses that he had issued during his failed attempt to batter the door down. By then he hadn't been thinking clearly; all he had wanted was to relieve that feeling of helplessness. Only now did Alfred let himself feel the scratchy pain in his throat. Still lying where he had collapsed in a heap near the door, he kept on repeating the half-forgotten verses to the empty room.

_"Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?"_

The room had been a spare storage place on the ground floor. He remembered the summer when Arthur had helped him build it. There were no windows, just a small rectangle cut near the ceiling and covered with a thin cloth to let light in. Because really, who would waste good glass for a storage room?

How he wished now that he  _had_.

Alfred clumsily wiped at his eyes, the clink of metal as he moved was just another of the constant reminders of his situation. His hair had become greasy and matted over the weeks of incarceration since his defeat on the battlefield. And he knew he was thinner from the constant hunger that had nipped at the heels of his men. It felt like fortune gave him a small consolation in that he no longer could bring himself to care about his appearance. Not when his world was crumbling to the tune of Frère Jacques.

_"Sonnez les matines, Sonnez les matines."_

Both Francis and Arthur had taught him the tune that came tumbling from his cracked lips. He barely even remembered what the French words meant, but he couldn't bring himself to sing the verses Arthur had taught him. Even in French the song felt like an old friend; there was something calming about it not having changed since he'd learned it. Besides, Ben had always like the French...

It was still such a shock that Arthur would… no. He was no longer Arthur anymore, he was only England now. His enemy, his oppressor, his Tyrant. The one who had killed Washington. Alfred felt that he had failed all of his people for letting it happen. He tried to suppress his shudder at the thought.

 _England_ had forced him into this situation. If he'd only listened to Alfred's pleas for his people it could have been avoided. And then Canada, whom Alfred would've gladly accepted into his house, had not only snubbed him, but had betrayed him. His only real family member had rejected his push for independence.

And in the end it was in vain, wasn't it? He was captured by the enemy, his leaders had been killed, his army had been killed or imprisoned, and his people...

" _Ding, Dang Dong, Ding Dang Dong."_

Alfred never knew the pain of the people could hurt this much. Could barely tell where their pain ended and his started. If only he could do something about it, if only he knew  _what_ to do now. Now that he was defeated.

His whispered singing tapered off as he heard the sound of a key scraping in the lock of the door. It must have been seconds

England looked immaculate as ever as he stepped inside. His steely gaze immediately zeroed in on Alfred, still sprawled next to the wall. He looked at him appraisingly before asking, "So have you finally managed to calm yourself down?"

Alfred was seeing red as he tried to push himself off the ground, trying to get up so he could show England how  _calm_ he was. Alfred only managed to get on his knees before he was yanked to his feet by his hair.

He couldn't hide the puffy, bloodshot eyes as he glared at England. What he wouldn't give to stop his body from feeling so heavy - so heavy that he couldn't even attack the cold bastard in front of him.

"I see you are more worn out than calm. And you look so tired Alfred, you should be resting." That England had actually tried to make it seem like he  _cared_ about  _Alfred_ bordered on hilarity. He knew exactly what England and his king cared about.

Alfred had a hard time keeping his voice from cracking as he bit out, "Go die in a ditch."

It wasn't something as heroic as he wished he'd have said, but it was his fondest wish at the moment.

The slight narrowing of England's eyes and his longsuffering sigh was Alfred's only warning as he was backhanded across the face.

"I didn't want to do that Alfred. I didn't want to do a lot of things; but you need to learn what is acceptable and what is not." Keeping a firm grip on Alfred's hair, he half-carried, half-dragged the boy to the bed, shoving him on it.

England seemed to ignore the unnatural quiet that descended on the room as he propped an angry but unresisting Alfred up into a sitting position. "Unacceptable behavior will be punished. There will also be quite a few changes. I can't just let you run wild again - if only for your own safety."

For his own safety? More like for the safety of England's profits.

"Each government official will be appointed by and answer to the Crown. Needless to say, expansion westwards will be halted. There will also be several new taxes that will be used to pay for war damages." At that Alfred almost felt like crying again, the matter-of-fact way England sounded, as if he were reading them off a list, it was far too similar to the charges they'd read at the execution.

"And, until I deem you civilized, you will have not visit anyone nor have visitors here. Including your brother."

Alfred grimaced, "I have no brother."

At that England raised a large eyebrow, "He would be very sad to hear that."

As if. Canada was probably happy that he didn't have to visit anymore. "He's a traitor."

England smirked, "And you don't see yourself as a traitor?"

"I fought for freedom. I just wanted to be independent; if you had let me go then I never would have fought against you!" God, he hated how shaky his voice still sounded.

He could almost see the condescension dripping from England's voice. "Do you not hear yourself? It is a good thing for you that you didn't win this little rebellion."

Little rebellion? He had poured his heart into this struggle! Had traded his plow for a bayoneted rifle. Had even fought against the nation that had raised him; had invaded another nation that was his only brother.

Had his efforts really seemed so half-hearted?

"Go away." He knew he sounded like a petulant child, but he couldn't bring himself to care anymore. He turned away from England to face the dark wall, childishly hoping that he might just disappear.

"Everything will go much better if you cooperate and behave, Alfred." And that was something he just couldn't stand; that horrible kindness in Arthur's voice, as if he had not just done all the things he had.

He slowly shook his head and shut his eyes tight. "Murderer. Go away."

Alfred missed the concern now etched on England's face as he unexpectedly asked, "Are you hungry?"

Hungry? For food? Alfred wasn't so sure if he ever wanted to eat again. Especially if it was England's food. But it did remind him of something he'd been wondering about.

"What happened to France?"

"You do not need to know." It figured that only at that point did England have the decency to sound distant.

"What happened to him?" If something had happened it would be all Alfred's fault, wouldn't it? He'd been the one to ask Francis to help him...

He shivered from past memories as England took the folded blanket near the bed and began to cover him with it. "You should be thankful that whatever happens to him, it will not happen to you."

"What d-d-did you do?" Alfred was too tired now to cover up the slight fear in his voice.

"I? I did nothing that was not required to ensure victory. What is happening to him now is the frog's own bloody fault." England leaned over and awkwardly patted Alfred's head.

"Just go to sleep. You don't have to worry about him anymore. You don't have to worry about any of the other countries anymore."

Alfred began to drift as he heard England's footsteps fade. But this was not the peaceful kind of rest he had once had - It was the fitful sleep of the damned.

That night Alfred dreamed of fire.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Notes Originally Written After Chapter One
> 
> So far the England in my head is still very Imperialistic!Conquering!Ambitious!, but because he has a soft spot a mile wide for America he can still be redeemed.
> 
> And America...;_; He will be needing many huggles.
> 
> There will be more on how the rest of Europe as well as how exactly the other colonies are affected, prolly won't go in-depth till the third part.
> 
> After Notes For This Chapter
> 
> As for Al, poor guy's going through some really rough depression. Scattered, jumpy thoughts and nerves and the like. Will prolly also take a toll on his 'super strength' since depression tends to make people feel sleepy and weak. Plus Iggy's cooking. Actually, I could've just said 'Iggy's cooking' and left it at that.


	4. Douse The Glim

_"Disobedience, in the eyes of anyone who has read history, is man's original virtue. It is through disobedience that progress has been made, through disobedience and through rebellion."_  -Oscar Wilde

* * *

Burning.

Francis' warships were burning.

He could see them as the ship he was on pulled out of the harbor; watched as they were scuttled and then set aflame - as if one way of destroying them was just not enough of a blow against the vessels of the defeated enemy.

Francis could only look on as he left the New World, his forces firmly pushed back and soundly thrashed. Defeated in all ways - save the pretty piece of paper that would show the whole world just  _how_  defeated he really was. To say that he dreaded the next treaty would be an understatement.

As he shifted to get a better look at the flames from the railing he winced, still not used to the necessity of having to properly position his arms to avoid pain. His once beautiful, delicate hands were wrapped in heavy bandages; wrapped to hide the wretched ugliness they'd been crushed into. The memory of which was only too vivid in his mind.

It had been England himself to do the honours. Francis had been taken to a barn outside of a coastal settlement, his wrists bound together and placed upon a crude chopping block as he was held down by grim British soldiers. He didn't have to wait long until the victor himself finally came in to dole out the punishment.

The absolutely frigid glare that was given to him as England raised the rifle was something Francis would never forget; even should he live to be as old as China. Those hateful green eyes gave a look that held not the slightest trace of remorse, not the slightest inclination of pity. Francis was able to physically feel that exact sentiment as England began smashing the butt of the rifle savagely against Francis' unprotected fingers. He was not able to stop his own instinctive jerking, or the screams that finally came at the end, but all throughout his ordeal he'd only been able to focus on the cold, calculating fury etched into England's face.

Afterwards, when Francis' mutilated fingers were suitably bloody enough for England's tastes, England had remarked that the punishment fit the crime. That Francis had touched what was not his, and so it was fitting that he would not be touching anything for some time to come.

Francis would not let that bother him though; his hands would heal eventually. Francis had endured worse wounds that had healed to the point that he could barely see the scarring, but he knew the pain wouldn't be going away anytime soon. Nor would the new troubles brewing at home; the ideals they had been cheering and fighting for had been crushed with the loss of a single war.

There were riots in his streets - he could feel it. That simmering burn inside his stomach would not leave him. The people were restless as the first confirmations of the American Colonist's defeat reached them across the Atlantic. Francis felt and understood their disappointment firsthand. He had wanted to see it so badly; had wanted to see a free republic modeled after the many idealistic beliefs proposed by scores of philosophers. Yet he was not the only one who had lost this war...

It didn't take a genius to guess what would be demanded of Spain; New Orleans and the Louisiana Territory had always been something of interest among the European Powers. Francis just hoped his old friend didn't get the same kind of 'attention' he himself had received. Spain hadn't been as aggressive as he himself had during all of the attacks, so there was a good chance England wouldn't focus on him if he were preoccupied elsewhere; which England would be with all the new territory he'd be incorporating into his 'Empire'.

England had been wearing that insufferable imperialistic air as he told him his expectations for French surrender. Both Guadeloupe and Martinique, the profitable islands he had been forced to choose over dearest Mathieu in the last war, would be turned over to British rule. Francis had no doubt that more would be demanded from him when they finally worked out the treaty - but the heathen just  _had_ to twist that knife in a little deeper before he was sent off with his tail between his legs.

Francis admitted that were he a lesser nation, a younger nation, he might have had a break down by now. Francis was accustomed to both victory and defeat, had tasted much of both in his time upon the Earth. The give and take of war was something that shouldn't faze someone who was so familiar with its ways. It was just that... this particular defeat had struck far too close to his heart. First Mathieu and then Alfred, both now firmly in the clutches of a greedy England...

Francis was so lost in his unhappy thoughts that he nearly jumped when he finally noticed the tall nation leaning on the railing beside him, the Netherlands had his perpetual mask of indifference in place even at a time like this.

He was still grateful to him, Lukas had assisted and supplied the shaky alliance, even when it'd meant risking another Anglo-Dutch war that he knew he couldn't afford.

"Do you regret assisting us?" Normally Francis wouldn't be so blunt, but knowing who he was with it was better using a direct approach.

Lukas gave a dismissing shrug as he watched the receding coastline. "I did what I thought was best for myself, and unlike you and Spain, England and I never officially declared war on each other. I retain my neutrality."

Ah, but Francis knew of the other reason he'd decided to give his help as a neutral trading partner. One had only to compare the Netherlands' Act of Abjuration to America's ill-fated Declaration of Independence to see why Lukas might feel the need to help the rebelling colony. Perhaps he had felt nostalgia for his own rebellion against Spain, had seen himself in America's place?

It was a bit uncanny how both documents had the same calling out of a ruler for ignoring the 'Social Contract' of the people.

Things like this made Francis believe that Lukas had managed to meet Alfred and Mathieu long before Finland had ever even seen them. Perhaps he had influenced the young colonies more than either England or himself had given him credit for? The banning of trade with the Netherlands had been one of the things to set the Colonists off, after all.

Lukas had turned to look at him. "You worry about the child," more a statement than a question.

"I worry for them both." Francis couldn't imagine  _not_  worrying about them.

With the rebellion of the colonies there was always the chance of a backlash brought about by England to ensure order. Both boys could potentially be in danger. And here he was, sailing away from them both in defeat. Leaving them to the whims of his centuries old rival. He wasn't sure if there was a strong enough word for the shame he felt.

Lukas nodded his head, he understood the situation well enough. "You gave England a hell of a run." With that brief statement he stalked off, most likely retreating to the solitude of his cabin.

Francis couldn't help but chuckle. Coming from the naturally abrasive nation that was downright flattery.

As the land disappeared from the horizon Francis closed his eyes and hummed an old tune, trying to give himself just a bit of comfort from his thoughts, a little peace before going to face the Hell that Europe would be once he returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While there were a few countries that were more likely to support each other at the time, alliances were still very transient and short-lived in Europe. The country you allied with today might be your adversary within the next decade.
> 
> I might also add for those familiar with the Louisiana Purchase that at this time France does not still own the Louisiana Territory or New Orleans. He lost it during the Seven Years War (French and Indian War) and only got it back from Spain with the rule of Napoleon, so by all rights it's Spain's to take away at this point in history.
> 
> The whole thing with the Act of Abjuration(Plakkaat van Verlatinghe) and Declaration of Independence? Trufax. Pretty much a 'this is why you suck' letter to Spain's monarch at the time, Phillip II. Look it up sometime, they have a lot of the same elements. And I do not say that just because I secretly ship Netherlands/America. (Q_Q)
> 
> Netherlands/ Lukas Jansen - My own headcanon name for him I guess.


End file.
